Ode to the Sunday morning

[Foot fetish anyone?]

A poem as a tribute to the all-pervasive, indomitable, sagacious BO.

[This poem is the unfortunate result of a exhausting, mind-numbing, dehydrating, stomach-churning and crazy Sunday (and a tad amount of plagiarism). Details should soon be up on Radhika's blog]

Bhow, bhow,
Oh my God, its Bo!
You only reap what you sow
You have hairy palms, no?
We shall go - play with Play Doh
Hona hai jo, hone do.
Listen to the crow crow
The Indian Space Research Organisation is called ISRO
You rise when its dark
The heavens break apart
And quote to thee,
Lucifer's child, the anti-lark
[Six, six six! The number of the Beast!]
Prepared is thy zoic feast
Thy arrows :
Will through bone marrow
And call to blithe mortals in a low baritone
'Minions, Armageddon nears
Look to the heavens, fear oh fear'
Bo, neo Zeus
Aam, seb, ganna juice
Das rupay, paanch rupay, teen rupay glass
Aao piyo, bahut hai khaas
A glass of sang-froid stands prepared
Vlad [the Impaler] hath not better fared
Slitting the throats of a thousand kind
Slaying more monsters than you can find
Woe betide thee oh Earth and Sea
O Bo, please set us free.

Credit for this master piece goes to She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (aka: Vas), Freak-of-Nature (aka: Radhika) and Abominable Being (i.e. me).

[Disclaimer: Any mental retardation, hallucinations of pink elephants and/or spontaneous fires caused by the reading of this post is not the responsibility of anyone/thing other than the towel with yellow Polka dots in the junk yard across my home.]